


Laundromat

by musiclvr1112



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Aged Up, Alternate Universe, F/M, Laundromat, Steamy, au yeah august, ml au yeah august
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-22 08:48:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15578142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musiclvr1112/pseuds/musiclvr1112
Summary: AU Yeah August Day 5:Laundromat AU





	Laundromat

 

It’s a hot summer night. One of those nights that make you stay awake even later than you usually do, and that’s saying a lot for you. You hate this weather because it’s sticky and sweaty and hot, but you also have a weird sort of love for it. It’s creative weather, you can’t deny that. A very specific kind of creative though. A deep, instinctual, heavy, overbearing kind of creative. Inspiration as thick as the hot air itself.

It’s the weather that has you up all night with the windows open and the fan on high, in a tank top and those gym shorts you never wear, drawing as if you were in some weird trance until suddenly the sun is coming up and you realize you have a brand new beautifully detailed piece of art in your sketchbook that you swear you just had the idea for five minutes ago.

Yes, it’s one of those nights, and you want nothing more than to embrace that exhilarating summer energy and create, but instead you’re stuck in the Laundromat at 1 am.

You weren’t smart enough to bring your sketchbook with you, but at least you always have a pen in your hair. Sure, it meant releasing your hair from the makeshift bun you had it in because you also forgot a hair tie, but anything to get your fix. The pen gliding across the skin of your left arm only satisfies that craving in the smallest form, but it’s satisfaction nonetheless and that feels far better than just sitting there watching the minutes tick on the washing machine.

Or sitting there scrolling social media on your phone like the blonde on the other side of the room, for that matter.

You can’t help it. You look up from the new sleeve you’re putting on your arm to glance at her again. She’s facing you because she’s sitting on top of her washer, but she still isn’t looking at you; she’s focused on her phone. You noticed her when she came in. It’d be hard not to. Even if you hadn’t gone to school with her years ago and even if her face wasn’t all over the news recently in light of her family’s financial downfall, she was still…

Well, let’s just say it’d be a blatant lie if you were to say you weren’t extremely attracted to her.

You always thought she was pretty—that was never a question, not even when you hated her with every fiber of your being. She had that pristine, polished sort of pretty that came with designer clothes and professionally styled hair, on top of the natural advantage of those piercing blue eyes. It was the eyes that always used to scare you the most. You hated and admired them. You drew them a few times, and justified it by making her a villain in a comic, but you can admit it now that you’re older. You really thought she was one of the prettiest people you’d ever seen.

And now…

Well, you never thought you would see her again. At least, not in person. And even if you did, you never thought you would see her like _this._ You never thought you’d see her hair in anything but that high ponytail she always used to wear it in, and you _definitely_ never thought you’d see her wearing anything less than designer fashion.

Yet.

In she walked tonight, a huge bag of dirty clothes slung over her shoulder, her hair up in a casual, messy bun, wearing a black spaghetti strap undershirt, little yellow booty shorts, and flip flops.

You’ve always been a slut for the “messy hair don’t care” look, and seeing it on _her_ of all people is most definitely hitting you a lot harder than you’d like to admit.

And it certainly isn’t helping that her skin has an overall glossy sheen in this heat and that there are little beads of sweat rolling down her neck and little strands of hair curling and frizzing all about her head.

She glances up from her phone and you quickly look down at your arm again, heart thumping particularly hard in fright. You’re almost certain she recognized you when she came in; how could she not when your hair is that obnoxiously bright red color? But just like you’ve been doing, she’s been avoiding eye contact with you the entire time she’s been here, pretending you weren’t classmates when you were younger.

You should just stop looking at her. You two weren’t friends—you could even say you were enemies—and with everything that’s happened to her family in the last few months, the last thing she probably wants is to see someone like you. You imagine that’s probably why she’s here at 1 am when no one else in their right mind would be at a public Laundromat. No one but the artist with insomnia and the unlucky attendant who got the graveyard shift.

You focus on your new sleeve for a while and try not to think about the woman across the room. You force yourself to stare intently at the dragon you’re making when you see her shift out of the corner of your eye, but you fail and you steal a glance and all she’s doing is putting down the leg she had drawn up to her chest and pulling the other one up to lean her cheek on her knee but _wow_ you find it so goddamn attractive in the weirdest way and you swear it must be the weather because you are seriously considering—

The timer on your washing machine buzzes.

You swallow nervously and take a deep breath as you realize your heart started racing somewhere in there. You stick the pen behind your ear and get up to deal with your clothes and you can’t stop thinking about her and glancing at her. You must be losing your mind, you think. She’s attractive, but you shouldn’t be this absolutely ridiculously drawn to her. It must be the weather. The heat that inspires you with that intense energy; you didn’t give it what it wanted so now it’s demanding a different craving of you.

You shut the dryer door a little too forcefully and once you’ve pressed start you decide you need some fresh air and a cold drink.

Ten minutes later you’re walking back into the Laundromat with not just one but two iced coffee drinks in your hand. The night air didn’t do a damn thing to clear your mind; it only made it worse and convinced you to do it. So here you go. You walk through the front door and instead of heading back to your side of the room, you walk straight towards her.

She pretends not to notice until you stop right in front of her and then she looks up from her phone and yep, that blue gaze could definitely still pierce through steel.

And you are far weaker than steel.

“Coffee?” you say, and you hold out the drink in your left hand. She scowls, and you know she’s wary and untrusting, and really, you can’t blame her. She has no reason to think you have anything but ill will towards her and even if you know you don’t, you’re not really sure why. Maybe it’s because it’s been years and you’ve gotten over the petty little things she used to do. Maybe it’s because it’s been years and you know she’s probably grown up like you have. Maybe it’s because of everything she’s gone through recently.

Maybe it’s because you’re incredibly, undeniably attracted to her.

But whatever the reason, you smile peacefully and hope she takes the coffee.

She does, though her suspicious frown doesn’t go away.

“Why?” she asks, and her voice still has that stabbing quality it always used to.

You shrug. “It’s hot. I thought you might want something cold to drink.” Her scowl only deepens. She may be many things, but she isn’t stupid and she isn’t going to just accept that answer. So you roll your eyes and you admit, “Okay, I wanted an excuse to talk to you because avoiding eye contact was getting unbearable.”

It’s not a lie, though it kind of feels like one. You are _somewhat_ obscuring the truth.

She seems to accept that answer though, and takes a sip of coffee. You watch curiously. You had taken a guess and gotten her a caramel iced coffee, because she seems like a caramel kind of person, but you’re not really sure what’ll happen if you guessed wrong.

But a tiny smile comes to her lips—her really soft looking lips—and she says, “Thank you.”

You let out a small sigh of relief and take a sip of your own iced mocha.

And then you stand there in silence. You didn’t really plan any further than this. You’re kind of an idiot.

She presses the cold cup against her neck with a sigh and you watch as a drop of condensation rolls down her collarbone and into the shapely crevice between her—

“So why are you here at 1 am?” she asks. You jump a little bit at her voice and when your eyes snap back up to hers, you think that she almost definitely saw where they had gone. Your first thought is to be mortified, but then you realize that she doesn’t seem upset about it. In fact—and you’re second guessing this like hell because you’re probably crazy from the heat—she almost seems pleased.

You hesitate a moment before answering as you debate what you’re going to do. Do you just talk casually and innocently as if you were just old classmates catching up? Or do you go out on a limb and act on your oppressive attraction to her?

You put on a smile that you hope is somewhere in the middle. “I almost exclusively do my laundry at this hour.”

“Night owl?”

You shrug, and your demeanor and tone are definitely turning on the charm a little bit out of habit, but you decide not to stop it. “Only if owls don’t sleep during the day either.”

A sly smile of understanding takes to her lips and she bites on her straw in the corner of her mouth. You wonder if you’re imagining the flirtatious spark in her eye. “I see.”

“What about you?” you ask, and you lean nonchalantly against the dryer behind you. You’ve always hated the narrow aisles between machines in this Laundromat before—they make for awkward instances of trying to walk past another person doing their laundry—but now you find yourself appreciating them for the lack of space they’ve created between you and her.

She looks away and scratches her head with a slight frown. “I’m sure you’ve seen the news lately.”

“You wanted to avoid people?”

“Yeah,” she shrugs. “Even if the looks from people alone weren’t annoying enough, any one of them could notify the press and suddenly I could have a whole hoard of photographers snapping pictures of me doing laundry.” Then she adds in a quiet mutter, “Just like at the grocery store…”

You sip from your drink in the small silence that follows, not really sure what to say to her on the subject. You know exactly what she’s referencing. It was just a couple weeks ago when pictures of her comparing two brands of toilet paper were floating around the news and all forms of social media. You didn’t really see what the big deal was—and you even felt pity for your former bully. You had thought at the time that no one deserved to have the most mundane aspects of their life broadcast and exposed like that, not even her. Now that you’re seeing her here like this, doing laundry at a time when she would probably usually be sleeping, with her knee drawn up and that solemn look on her face, you’re seeing up close and personal the truth behind those thoughts.

“Well,” you say, deciding to lighten the tone, “lucky for you, my phone’s dead. Otherwise…”

Her eyes snap back to you then and they’re deadly for a moment before they fall on your Cheshire grin and she realizes you’re joking. Then you’re proud of yourself as you see her visibly relax. A cute little smile even takes to the corner of her lips.

“So why caramel?” she asks, and that little spark of flirtatious energy is back in her eyes. She lowers her leg then and leans forward to rest her forearms on her knees, and you _know_ that she must be fully aware of the view she’s giving you straight down the low cut of her undershirt.

You’re also about 99.9% certain that she catches the way you glance down as she shifts, and about 98% certain it makes her smile grow just the slightest bit.

You try to keep your cool—even though _wow_ she is tantalizing in the summer heat—and you shrug. “Just a guess. Was it right?”

She purposely takes a drink then, humming as if she’s thinking when really she’s toying with you, and not trying to hide it in the slightest. “It’s a _good_ guess,” she finally says. Then an impish smile. “Not the _right_ guess though.”

You grin, embracing this playful energy. “No? What is the right guess then?”

“Well it wouldn’t be a guess if I told you, would it?”

The flirt within you sees its opening, and you don’t even attempt to hold it back. You take a small step forward, entering her space, and you’re delighted to see that she doesn’t back up. “Is that an invitation to guess again?”

“You think you’re up to the challenge?”

“I think I could handle it.”

“I can be pretty unpredictable.”

“I like unpredictable.”

You’re so close you can feel her breath on your skin, and those daring blue eyes are all you see. You could kiss her. She’s _right there_ with her perfect lips in that wicked smile that’s driving you crazy, drawing you in. And you can tell she wants to kiss you too.

She opens her mouth to say something.

And her dryer buzzes.

She stares at you for another moment before the coquettish attitude melts away. “I should get that.”

She slips down from the dryer then, and you back up just enough to give her room to stand. You realize then that while you grew after school, she didn’t, and now you can feel the heat from her body only centimeters away as you look down at those devastating blue eyes. They’re still daring you, challenging you, only now it’s in little hints—bait to keep you hooked.

She turns without another word and starts unloading her clothes into the laundry bag. Then when she’s done, those eyes fall on you again and they’re sharp and gorgeous and blazing in the summer heat.

“Take another guess tomorrow night,” she says. “Same time.”

Then you watch her leave, and she’s been out the door for about 20 seconds when you realize you, Nathaniel Kurtzberg, have a date with Chloé Bourgeois.

 


End file.
